Kiss With A Fist
by Everlasting Faerie Light
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is always competing with that insufferable frog. Always. FrUK yaoi smutty goodness for request. Songfic to "Kiss With A Fist" by Florence and the Machine.


"Oh, _mon ami, _you say such hurtful words to me!" Francis whined, placing a hand over his heart, his lips set in a pout.

Disgusting. He was disgusting. Absolutely vile. Nothing about him was appealing. Not even that long silky blonde hair that Arthur so DID NOT want to run his fingers through.

After all, Arthur Kirkland IS a dignified gentleman. He prides himself on his logic, rationality, and undeniable spying skills. And despite what the damn wine-loving ninny says, Arthur knows that he can cook! His scones are simply delectable!

The Englishman crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at the swooning Frenchman.

Just the sound of the damn frog's voice set him off.

"Damn cheese-eating, STD-infested…" Arthur started to mumble, loud enough for Francis to hear. In response, the Frenchman smirked, crossing his arms in a way that mocked the other.

"Now, now, _Angletarre, _there's no need to take your insecurities out on me," he said, taking a step closer to Arthur. In response the Englishman took a step back, feeling rage start to pour throughout his whole body.

"Excuse me? And what the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur snapped, uncrossing his arms and balling them in fists.

"Ohonhonhonhon, it is not my fault that I am so beautiful. It's only natural for you to be jealous," Francis said with a flourishing toss of his NOT-silky hair. The Frenchman took yet ANOTHER step closer to Arthur, who stomped his foot down in aggression.

"Jealous of _you? _Don't make me laugh!" he spat, feeling his face heat up with his ever-growing temper. It angered him to no end that the stupid man had the nerve to taunt him like this, that Francis, and ONLY Francis knew how to push Arthur's buttons.

It was a never-ending cycle.

Arthur would say something.

Francis would counter it.

Arthur would snap at him.

Francis would poke at his insecurities.

Arthur would threaten to punch him.

Francis would make some sort of sexual advance.

Arthur would lunge at him with every intention to impale or maim.

And then all hell would break loose.

It would be a violation against nature to break tradition, eh?

…

_You hit me once_

_I hit you back_

_You gave a kick_

_I gave a slap_

_You smashed a plate over my head_

_Then I set fire to your bed_

…

"_Mon cher_, if you just took care of those ghastly eyebrows of yours and combed your hair, I'm sure that you could acquire half the beauty that I possess…" Francis mused.

"Why you…" growled Arthur as he lunged at Francis, his hands aiming for the man's throat. But Francis caught both of the Englishman's wrists with his hands. Arthur gasped in fury. How dare he…HOW DARE THIS BLOODY FROG TOUCH HIS WRISTS!

"UNHAND ME NOW YOU INSUFFERABLY TWAT!" He yelled as loudly as he could, squirming, attempting to pull his wrists out of Francis's grip. But the Frenchman just laughed mockingly, shaking his head.

"Come now, _Angletarre_, we're stuck here for at least another four hours. We should try to place nicely, _oui?" _Francis asked, his lips turning up into a smirk, his blue eyes glinting.

"Place nicely? With _you? _I would rather fuck a frog."

"Ohonhonhonhon…"

"Wh-NO! NO I DID NOT MEAN THAT!" Arthur screamed at the top of his lungs, feeling his face flush red.

"Why, _Angletarre_. I didn't know you felt so strongly for me," Francis said with a lewd smile, wriggling his eyebrows up and down. Arthur felt as if his whole body were being doused in hot oil. Was it just him, or did the temperature increase by a few degrees?

Finally, Arthur managed to rip his wrists from the Frenchman's grasp. He would personally set fire to his skin once he got out of this predicament.

"Only in your twisted perverted dreams," Arthur snapped, wishing that his face would stop burning.

This was all Gilbert's fault! That damn bleeding tosser!

For some twisted reason, he believed that it would be a good idea to lock both Arthur and Francis in a room for the night. The Englishman would never forget the albino's "kesesese" when Arthur freaked out about there being a bed as well. A large bed.

Arthur didn't even want to THINK about what that bastard was implying.

"Ohonhon. I know that you secretly wish for me to dream about you, but there are more… attractive _beaus et belles _to occupy my mind," Francis answered, his smirk widening as he saw the Englishman's glare deepen.

Arthur spluttered. "As if I'd want someone as disgusting as YOU to think about me!"

Francis walked forward and placed both of his hands on the Englishman's shoulders. "Don't deny it, _Angletarre."_

"GET ME OUT OF HERE! I BEG YOU! ANYONE…. I'M PRESSING CHARGES FOR BLOODY RAPE IF YOU DON'T GET YOUR BLOODY HANDS OFF OF ME…"

A hand. The frog's filthy hand.

On his mouth.

Covering it.

"Shhh, shhh. Try not to be so unpleasant…ahhhh! Did you just bite me hand?"

"If you ever touch my mouth again, frog…ack! What are you doing? GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY ARSE!"

"Ohonhonhonhonhon…."

…

_You hit me once _

_I hit you back_

_You gave a kick_

_I gave a slap_

_You smashed a plate_

_Over my head_

_Then I set fire to our bed_

…

"Argh! You undignified, miserable, overly-feminine cad! Can't you keep your hands to yourself for once?" Arthur growled, finally managing to back up. His face was beet red, his fists balled, and his teeth clenched.

"Ahhh, so influenced by your miserably stuffy Victorian Age! Come now, you need to relax for once. I prefer to spread _l'amour, oui?" _Francis responded, his eyes twinkling as he kept advancing on Arthur, who was scrambling backwards, his heart pounding.

Then, his foot caught on something. Arthur found himself falling backwards…and he landed on something soft with a small "oof!" Something extremely comfortable. A bed.

The bed.

Fuck.

Arthur gulped, unable to move. He was afraid. No…no…that wasn't right. This definitely wasn't fear. As he looked at Francis, the way the Frenchman kept advancing on him, his long blonde hair flowing, his devious smirk widening, his eyes glittering…

Arthur felt…he felt….

His heart raced, his face was flushed, his breathing was shallow…

The Englishman felt as if his sanity was slipping.

Then, Francis stood over him, looking down at Arthur, his eyes still glimmering.

"Ah,_ Angletarre, _what a vulnerable position. You almost look tempting!" he said, licking his lips. Arthur gulped, trying to think of something to say…anything.

"S-Shut up, frog!" he snapped, but his voice was hoarse. Completely hoarse. No! NOOOOO! He couldn't let himself slip like this! Why couldn't he think straight? Why…why was Francis getting closer and closer? Why did Arthur seem to lay absolutely still, waiting for it? Knowing what was going to happen? Why wasn't he protesting it?

Then, Arthur let his eyes flutter shut as he felt Francis's lips on his. They were surprisingly soft and tender. Nothing like Arthur expected. Jolts of electricity shot through his body, from the tips of his fingertips, all through his veins, flooding through his chest, to the very ends of his toes…

And before he could confront the rational side of his brain, he found himself kissing back. Arthur's whole body responded as he moved his lips against the Frenchman's. He reached up his hands and found his fingers gripping Francis's shoulders.

The Frenchman broke the kiss for a second to fully climb onto the bed. He straddled Arthur, both of his legs on either side of the Englishman's hips, the space between their two bulging members thick, swirling and hot.

Then Francis brought his lips back down upon Arthur's, his tongue slipping into his mouth, exploring every corner of it. Arthur let out a moan, his breathing becoming increasingly ragged with each passing second. He tangled his fingers into Francis's silky blonde hair and willed the Frenchman to close the space between their bodies. He wanted to feel Francis's groin against his. His head was exploding, whirling, twirling, nonstop….

Francis grinded his crotch against Arthur's and both their breaths hitched violently. Hot waves of pleasure cascaded over both of them, and Francis moved his lips from the Englishman's, and started to kiss from his jaw, down his neck, and then to his chest, slowly and gracefully unbuttoning his shirt one button at a time, kissing each centimeter of exposed skin.

Some part of Arthur was asking him what the bloody hell he was doing. This was Francis! Francis Bonnefoy! The Frog! The wine-drinking cheese-loving twat! The unbearable country of France! The one constantly berates him about his cooking and eyebrows!

But Arthur found that he didn't give a damn. Not at all.

"F-Francis…" Arthur panted once the Frenchman reached the hemline of his trousers.

…

_My black eye casts no shadow  
>Your red eye sees no pain<br>Your slaps don't stick  
>Your kicks don't hit<br>So we remain the same  
>Blood sticks, sweat drips<br>Break the lock if it don't fit  
>A kick in the teeth is good for some<br>A kiss with a fist is better than none  
>A-woah a kiss with a fist is better than none<em>

…

Francis smirked, letting his tongue trace the skin that lined Arthur's trousers. He then looked up, his eyes skimming the rather glorious display of the Englishman's defined stomach and chest.

He then slowly moved back up to meet Arthur's face. He stared into his face, only centimeters away from his lips. The Frenchman's eyes were shimmering, flashing with a variety of colors, vibrant. His cheeks were lightly dusted pink. He smirked, licking his lips once again, and Arthur stared at his tongue, mesmerized.

"Ahhh, so Angletarre wants to be fucked, _oui_?"

Francis's voice was husky, teasing, breathless…

"Ohonhonhon, I always knew that you Englishman were submissive."

Then, something snapped. Arthur was broken out of his drunken daze. His desire to have his arse violated disappeared.

"Submissive? SUBMISSIVE? WHAT THE FUCKING BLOOD HELL!" he spat, the rage pouring through every pore of his body.

Oh, he'll show that damn frog submissive.

In one surprising, swift motion, Francis found himself on the bottom, staring up into the face of Arthur, who wore a devious smirk on his lips. The Englishman straddled the Frenchman, finding triumph in the way Francis's eyes widened in surprise.

"Ahahahah. I'll teach you what it's like to be on the bottom, you frog! We Englishmen strive for domination! May I remind you of the French and Indian War? Who won that, eh?" Arthur ranted, his voice husky and thick with his ragged breaths.

Bam. One hit.

Francis didn't have time to respond, for Arthur had started to grind his crotch against Francis's the friction causing both of them to moan. The air started to swirl, flames were licking their skin. Arthur bent down and let his lips crash onto Francis's once again, their tongues in a swirling battle for dominance. Arthur trapped both of the Frenchman's arms on either side, pressing them against the bed, his fingernails grating into the other's skin as he continued to grind his hips. Both their moans and their pants intermingled, cascading around the room in a thick plethora of sparks, which seemed to twirl around the fire they were creating.

Arthur bit the Frenchman's lip, causing Francis to hiss. Their kisses grew more and more aggressive. Competitive. Battling. Passionate. Their movements grew more rough. Finally, Arthur moved his hands from the Frenchman's wrists to rip open the other's shirt, not caring if he was ripping through the buttons. Who gives a damn about bloody grace and seductive slowness? That's the fucking frog's style.

He ran his hands over Francis's chest, his fingernails grazing along the sculpted plains. He smirked under the kiss. Yes. He was winning. He wasn't going to go down without a fight.

However, Francis managed to wrap his leg around Arthur's body, and spin them around on the bed, so that the Frenchman was on top this time. The Englishman's breath was taken away in surprise, his swollen lips forming a small "o."

The Frenchman had his hands on either side of Arthur's head.

He said, "So you want to play that way, _oui_? May I remind you about who won the Hundred Years' War?"

Arthur gulped.

Smack. Another hit.

Francis didn't hesitate. He took Arthur's speechlessness and brought his lips down to the underside of Arthur's jawline, skillfully licking the soft skin before trailing his tongue down Arthur's neck, to his collarbone. The Englishman couldn't think straight. All he could do was moan, and pant. He knew that he would lose this one. And he would never live it down.

The Frenchman continued to trail down. Finally, he reached his trouser line again, and instead of teasing him, he unbuttoned them, and pulled the zipper down. Arthur's head was about to explode. His chest was heaving and his limbs were trembling with ecstasy.

Oh Dear God…

Francis gently gripped the Englishman's hardened groin with his hand through his boxers started to fondle it, smirking as he did so. Arthur was panting, his chest moving up and down, up and down, up and down…

"F-Francis…"

"Ohonhonhon, _oui, oui, _Angletarre. I like you best this way," he said.

Then, the Frenchman used his fingers to pull both the Englishman's pants and his boxers down to his knees, and then, he opened his mouth and started to suck.

England curled his toes and almost screamed as he felt Francis's tongue on his member. Oh Merlin! Oh sweet Hogwarts fucking School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Everything was hot. On fire. Burning. His whole body was trembling with pleasure. He curled and uncurled his fingers.

"Y-You BLOODY GIT!" he yelled, but his voice was broken through his gritted teeth. He hissed and panted. Helpless. Oh shit…he was going to come.

He was going to come…

"Ngghhhhh! You fucking frog!" he yelled, and then with a final scream, he released his seed into Francis's mouth.

The Frenchman smirked, knowing that he had won this one. He withdrew, licking his lips seductively, and then stood up, staring down at the panting England, whose face was completely red, his eyes dark with lust. Francis gave a small laugh as he bent down to look straight into Arthur's eyes.

"Do you understand now? You know that you can't beat me," he said.

Arthur's head snapped up as he glared daggers at Francis. "Hold up one bloody second!"

He grabbed Francis's arm with a firm fingers. Arthur forced his body up, his whole body shaking with intensity as he stared at the other, his eyes piercing, smoldering, glaring at Francis with a mixture of lust and hatred. Competition. Passion.

Always a competition.

"Don't you DARE think that I am done! You fucking fell on your miserable arse during the Napoleonic Wars. And who was it that you couldn't take over? Oh right. Me. So…"

Arthur pointed at the bed, still glaring at Francis.

"Get on the bed."

Francis was taken aback. He stared at Arthur, his mouth dropping open slightly.

"_E-Excuse-moi?"_ he asked.

He had never seen _Angletarre _so fired up before, so dominating. And Francis couldn't help but find it extremely attractive; the Englishman's hair more tousled than usual, his cheeks flushed his eyes flashing, dark, hazy, thick…

"You heard me," Arthur hissed. Then, Francis found the other's face literally one centimeter away from his own.

"Get…on…the…_bloody_…bed."

Bam. A kick.

…

_Broke your jaw once before  
>Spilt your blood upon the floor<br>You broke my leg in return  
>So let's sit back and watch the bed burn<br>Well love sticks sweat drips  
>Break the lock if it don't fit<br>A kick in the teeth is good for some  
>A kiss with a fist is better than none<br>A-woah a kiss with a fist is better than none_

…

Francis smirked and shrugged. "_Oui._ If you insist," he said.

He walked toward the bed and collapsed on it.

"Turn over," growled Arthur as he approached the bed, a slow smile forming on his lips. He was going to make this bloody frog howl. He was going to make him scream and beg for more. Because he was England. And he was an Englishman.

He had won many times before against this wine-loving bastard. They both hit each other, screamed at each other, pointed the sword at each other. There had been bloodshed, tears, laughs, bitterness, mocking…even death. So much death.

Centuries and centuries.

And yet, they were always the same.

They always remained the same.

Arthur climbed on top of Francis, his fingers tingling as he pulled the Frenchman's shirt off of his shoulders. He leaned down to kiss his bare neck, letting his tongue swirl delicately over the skin. He was pleased to hear Francis moan, to feel him squirm.

He had him now.

He pulled down the other's pants, smirking as each new inch of skin became exposed. More and more. He never realized just how beautiful his old enemy was.

Was he his enemy?

Despite the blood, despite the pain…they had been allies. They assisted each other, saved each other.

But they were always the same.

It's always been the same.

A smile with a slap.

A laugh with a kick.

A hug with a punch.

A kiss with a fist.

…

_You hit me once  
>I hit you back<br>You gave a kick  
>I gave a slap<br>You smashed a plate over my head  
>Then I set fire to our bed<em>

…

So, Arthur gently grazed his fingers down the Frenchman's back, delighting in the shivers. A sheen of sweat coated both of their bodies. The perspiration mixing with the thick atmosphere. The Englishman licked his both his index and middle fingers before pressing them into Francis's ass. The Frenchman gave a yelp and England snickered.

Hahaha. Who's laughing now, frog?

His whole body was heating up once again as he placed one finger in. Then another. Panting. Sweating. Lust. Emotion. So much emotion.

War. Always a war.

A kiss with a fist.

Smack.

Hit.

Explode.

Boom.

Smirk.

Smile.

Moan.

Carress.

Kiss.

Suck.

Bam.

Bang.

Slap.

Punch.

And it repeats.

Always repeats.

In and out. In and out.

More moaning. More pounding.

Screaming.

And the battle has been won.

But in a way, it hasn't.

Fire.

So much fire.

Take the torch, and set fire to the fucking bed.

…

_You hit me once  
>I hit you back<br>You gave a kick  
>I gave a slap<br>You smashed a plate over my head  
>Then I set fire to our bed<em>

…


End file.
